Whoever did it (we’d heard it was a lady),
we never will know: after she’d done it, she
cleared out her brushes and washes and paints
and proceeded to go – indeed, disappeared.
Later we heard from somebody who’d heard
from somebody she’d died. Whoever she was,
she’d applied to the thing known as Him
varied hints of her decorous tints: deco pink
here, and there, deco yellow, which caused
a stark change to come over this aberrant fellow.
Seen, before, only as unlovely chaos, whatever
this Him was, had clearly acquired a wink,
a new touch of guile, a sort of wry smile which
altered Him’s former inapposite faltering form,
which now seemed to warm and set sail
like a suddenly interesting craft whose strange
elegant angles arrested one’s eye, fore to aft –
destined to reach a new, welcoming shore.
Eyesore no more, Him discovered his place,
Him was no longer waste. Him was décor.
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